9,59 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Railway Detective
- Sprache: Englisch
1854. As the Cardiff-bound train puffs out of Paddington Station, young Hugh Kellow wraps a protective arm around his large valise. He has been entrusted with a priceless silver coffee pot, designed in the shape of a locomotive, by his elderly silversmith employer. But two of Hugh's fellow passengers are taking an enormous interest in the young man and his precious cargo. When a dead body is discovered in a room at the Cardiff Railway Hotel, beside an empty valise, the great Railway Detective Robert Colbeck and his trusty sergeant Victor Leeming are called in to investigate; and face a whole host of unexpected problems.
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Seitenzahl: 391
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2009
Ähnliche
PRAISE FOR EDWARD MARSTON
‘Once again Marston has created a credible atmosphere within an intriguing story’
Sunday Telegraph
‘There is a criminal mastermind, a doughty policeman in hot pursuit, plot twists aplenty and enough historical detail to evoke the period without bogging us down. Great fun’
Observer Review
‘A grand romp very much in the tradition of Holmes and Watson and Cribb and Thackeray…packed with characters Dickens would have been proud of. Wonderful, well written’
Time Out
‘Excellent… Marston is probably the best of our British writers of historical crime stories’
Birmingham Post
‘This is writing that can be described as the literary equivalent of the roller coaster. There is never a dull moment as Detective Inspector Robert Colbeck untangles a web of murder, blackmail and destruction. What more can the reader require?’
Friends of the Railway Museum Magazine
‘Told with great colour and panache… This is how history mysteries should be: fine storytelling, marvellous characters reminiscent of the great authors of the mid-Victorian period, and a sneaky mystery, too’
Sherlock Magazine
‘Edward Marston is famous as a writer of whodunits… This author is at his best writing about amiable heroes and hissable villains having some good-humoured adventures in an entertaining plot’
Historical Novels Review
THE SILVER LOCOMOTIVE MYSTERY
EDWARD MARSTON
To the people of Cardiff
in the hope that they will forgive any liberties I’ve taken with their history. Jeremiah Box Stockdale and Wlaetislaw Spiridion lived in Cardiff in 1855 but the events related here are entirely fictitious.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
1855
Nigel Buckmaster knew how to make an entrance. When he swept into the bustling concourse at Paddington Station, the crowd parted before him as for royalty. Those close to the actor-manager gaped and gasped as he strode past. Those farther away craned their necks to see what all the fuss was about. Tall, lean and lithe, Buckmaster wore a black cloak that swished behind him and a wide-brimmed black felt hat out of which long, lustrous, dark locks fell to his shoulders. His face was striking rather than handsome, his most significant features being a pointed chin and two large, smouldering eyes separated by a narrow, tapering nose. It was the face both of a hero and a villain, combining bravado with menace in identical proportions and exuding a sense of unassailable purpose.
Contributing in equal part to their dramatic arrival was the stately leading lady whom Buckmaster led on his arm. Kate Linnane was approaching thirty but she still had the stunning bloom and beauty of a much younger woman, features glowing, eyes dancing, delicate chin uplifted with regal disdain. Blond curls peeped out from a poke bonnet trimmed with ostrich feathers. Her light blue waistcoat was in subtle contrast to the exquisitely tailored navy jacket. Hidden beneath a decorated navy skirt that ballooned outwards, her feet tripped along so gracefully that she appeared to be gliding in unison with the majestic gait of her companion. Opened the previous year, the London terminus of the Great Western Railway was a spectacular cathedral of wrought iron and glass where thousands of passengers came to worship daily at the altar of steam. Nigel Buckmaster and Kate Linnane had momentarily transformed it into a vast apron stage on which they could perform before an open-mouthed audience.
As befitted such a splendid couple, there was a sizeable retinue in their wake. Where they led, other members of the troupe followed. First was a group of strutting, long-haired actors of varying ages along with some pretty, perfumed, gesticulating young actresses, eager to grab their share of attention. Behind these preening peacocks was a motley stage crew, noticeably less well-dressed and marked by an air of collective resignation. The cavalcade was completed by a line of porters wheeling well-worn trunks on their rumbling trolleys or carrying costume baskets, scenery and stage properties on their rattling carts. Buckmaster’s Players were on the move. They surged on to the platform as if commandeering the whole train. A strict order of precedence was observed. While the two luminaries headed for a first class carriage, the other artistes had to travel second class and the remainder of the company was forced to supervise the loading of the luggage and the theatrical paraphernalia before being received into the comfortless embrace of third class.
Buckmaster opened a carriage door with a flourish so that Kitty could step into the compartment. When he climbed in after her, he shut the door, flung off his hat, whisked off his cloak and sat with his back to the engine. Kate lowered herself on to the seat opposite him. Now that there were no spectators to impress, she let her features rearrange themselves into an expression of sheer boredom.
‘I hate all this travelling, Nigel,’ she said, peevishly.
‘Needs must when the devil drives,’ he told her. ‘If the mountain will not come to Mahomet, then Mahomet must go to the mountain.’
‘Why can we not play at Drury Lane or Covent Garden?’
‘Because they don’t yet deserve us, my love,’ he said with a grandiloquent gesture. ‘Until they do, we must seek pastures new.’
Kate sighed. ‘But why on earth must we do so in Wales?’ she complained, bitterly. ‘It’s like being cast into outer darkness.’
Twenty minutes later, just before the train was due to depart, two figures suddenly appeared outside their carriage. Kate was annoyed that their privacy was about to be invaded but Buckmaster took an interest in the touching little scene that was being played out only feet away from him. Though he could hear no words, he found the mime eloquent. A short, whiskery old man with rounded shoulders was giving a set of instructions to the passenger, peering over his glasses and wagging his finger repeatedly. Still in his twenties, his companion had a fresh-faced, boyish look to him, nodding dutifully in obedience and releasing an occasional affectionate smile. He was carrying a large bag, its heavy weight making him shift it from one hand to the other. Judging from his apparel, his bowler hat and the worried glances the young man threw at the train, Buckmaster surmised that he was not a regular traveller in first class. Indeed, when he eventually opened the door, he looked around warily as if unsure if he was entitled to climb aboard.
‘Come in, come in, my friend,’ said Buckmaster, beckoning him forward. ‘We are delighted to have some company.’
Resenting the newcomer, Kate hid her irritation behind a dazzling smile. He gave them both a nod of gratitude then stepped between them and sat by the window on the opposite side of the compartment. Buckmaster pulled the door shut and nodded to the man on the platform. Within a minute, a whistle sounded and the locomotive exploded into life. As the train moved forward, the young man gave a farewell wave to his erstwhile escort. Mouthing some last advice and with one hand holding his top hat in place, the old man scurried solicitously alongside the carriage until he ran out of breath and platform. Buckmaster was intrigued.
‘You are a regular Laertes, my friend,’ he observed.
The newcomer blinked. ‘I beg your pardon, sir.’
‘You are clearly not familiar with the greatest play ever written. I refer, of course, to William Shakespeare’s Hamlet, a role in which I have garnered endless plaudits. In earlier days, however, when I was a juvenile in the company, I often took the role of Laertes and received wise counsel from my father, Polonius, in much the same way as you took advice from your own revered parent just now.’
‘Mr Voke is not my father, sir.’
Buckmaster was surprised. ‘Really? Did my eyes deceive me?’
‘It’s true that he has been like a father to me in some ways,’ said the other, nervously, ‘especially since his own son deserted the business, but we are in no way related. Mr Voke is my employer.’
‘Ah, I see. And what form does that employment take?’
‘We are silversmiths.’
It took a long time to draw him out. Hugh Kellow had clearly never met any Thespians before. Arresting upon any stage, Buckmaster and Kate were positively overwhelming in the smaller confines of a railway carriage, albeit one on the broader gauge of just over seven feet. The silversmith was uneasy and tongue-tied at first. He sat in the corner with an arm looped protectively around his bag. They slowly won his confidence, eliciting his name and destination from him. It was almost half an hour before he had the courage to look Kate full in the face. Buckmaster resorted to flattery.
‘You have never trod the boards, I take it?’ he began.
‘No, sir,’ replied Kellow, modestly. ‘I’ve been to a few Penny Gaffs in London but that is all.’
Kate snorted. ‘Contemptible places!’
‘They provide a service, my love,’ said Buckmaster, tolerantly. ‘What they can never do, of course, is to reach the heights to which we soar. While they offer base amusement for the uneducated, we deal in true art, profound drama that can reach into the very soul of those privileged to watch.’ He studied Kellow. ‘Unless I am mistaken, you could have the makings of a fine actor.
‘Not me, sir,’ protested the silversmith. ‘I lack any talent.’
‘You have a good voice and a handsome face, two necessary attributes of any actor. If you can master the craft of a silversmith, you obviously have the dedication needed to train for the stage.’ He looked across at Kate. ‘Do you not agree?’
‘I was struck by his appearance the moment I set eyes on him,’ she said, taking her cue. ‘You have presence, Mr Kellow, and that is the most important quality of all. Vocal tricks and histrionic gestures can be taught but stage presence is a natural gift. Come now, there must have been times when you felt the urge to perform in public.’
‘Never, Miss Linnane,’ said Kellow with a self-effacing laugh. ‘The truth of it is I’m rather a timid fellow.’
‘Timidity is something that can easily be shed.’
‘Kate is right,’ added Buckmaster, taking a silver case from his pocket and extracting a card. ‘Here – take this. If ever you change your mind, there will always be a place for you in my company.’ Kellow took the gold-edged card and inspected it. ‘You would have to start at the bottom, you understand, with small parts and meagre rewards but think what glories might lie ahead – Hugh Kellow in Hamlet!’
The silversmith shrugged. ‘I think I will stick to my trade, sir.’
‘Keep my card and come to see us perform in Cardiff.’
‘Oh, I am not staying in the town, sir.’
‘No?’
‘I simply have to make a delivery,’ said Kellow, slipping the card into his pocket, ‘then I catch a return train to London. On that journey, I fear, I will not have such distinguished company in first class. Mr Voke bought me a second class ticket.’
‘I fancy that I see why,’ said Kate, who had been watching the way his arm never left the bag. ‘You must be carrying something of great value if you would not let your luggage be stowed on top of the carriage. May we ask what it is?’
Kellow bit his lip before speaking. ‘It’s a locomotive,’ he said. ‘To be more exact, it’s a silver coffee pot in the shape of a locomotive.’
‘How singular!’ cried Buckmaster. ‘Pray, let us see it.’
‘Mr Voke forbade me to show it to anyone, sir.’
‘But we are not anyone, Mr Kellow – we are friends.’
‘Trusted friends, I hope,’ said Kate, her appetite whetted. ‘What harm is there in letting us have a peep at it? We are very discreet and it is not as if your employer will ever know.’
Hugh Kellow wrestled with his conscience for several minutes, unwilling to open the bag yet not wishing to let them down. He did not wish to spend the rest of a long journey in a strained atmosphere. They had offered him friendship and he needed to respond.
‘Very well,’ he said, capitulating. ‘But you must promise not to touch it.’ The others nodded their consent. Kellow undid the straps on the bag and took out an object that was wrapped in muslin. He drew back the folds of the material. ‘Here it is – a replica of the Firefly class of 1840, exact in every particular.’
Buckmaster and Kate were astounded. What they were looking at was nothing less than a miniature masterpiece, a scale model that was well over a foot long and that had the substance and sheen of high quality silver. The boiler was fitted to a tall, domed, gleaming firebox. Either side of the two large driving wheels were much smaller carrying wheels. While Buckmaster whistled in amazement, Kate’s eyes widened covetously. Kellow was pleased at their reaction.
‘The framing has been simplified a little,’ he explained, ‘and we added some boiler mountings. As for this little embellishment,’ he went on, indicating a silver crown at the top of the smokestack, ‘it is not mere decoration. It has an important function.’ He flicked the crown back on its hinge. ‘It keeps the coffee warm before it is poured.’
‘It’s magnificent,’ said Buckmaster. ‘I’ve never seen such fine detail. It must have taken an age to make.’
‘It did, sir. Mr Voke is a perfectionist. He worked for an eternity on this commission. He even sent me to Swindon to make some drawings of Firefly locomotives.’
Buckmaster’s eye twinkled. ‘Did you travel first class?’
‘I had to make do with third class on that occasion,’ admitted Kellow, sadly. ‘Mr Voke is very careful with his money. Some call him mean – his son certainly did – but I think he’s being sensible. He’s taught me to manage my own income with similar caution.’
‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ said Kate, feasting her eyes on the locomotive. ‘Your employer has turned an ugly, dirty, noisy, iron contraption into a thing of real beauty. It must be an honour to work for such a superb craftsman.’
‘It is, indeed,’ returned Kellow, gratefully, ‘though the coffee pot is not entirely Mr Voke’s handiwork. The truth of it is that his eyesight is not what it was so he asked me to take over some of the more intricate work such as the crown and the insignia on the side of the firebox. I was also responsible for the pistons and for the railings on either side of the footplate.’ A note of pride intruded. ‘It was because I was so involved in making it that Mr Voke gave me the honour of delivering it to its new owner.’
‘And who is that?’
‘Mrs Tomkins of Cardiff – her name is on the boiler plate.’
‘I envy her!’ said Kate with feeling. ‘I adore silver. No, no,’ she went on quickly as Kellow tried to cover the locomotive up again. ‘Don’t hide it away, I beseech you. Let me gloat!’
Amid clouds of smoke, sulphur and soot, the train roared into Cardiff General Station and slowed to a juddering halt. The passengers alighted and waited for their luggage to be unloaded from the roofs of the carriages. Larger items had travelled in the guard’s van. Before he stepped on to the platform, Nigel Buckmaster put on his hat, cloak and imperious expression. He helped Kate Linnane to get out then he shook hands with Hugh Kellow. The silversmith was anxious to deliver the coffee pot but Kate was reluctant to let him go, clutching his arm with one hand while surreptitiously stroking his bag with the other. When he finally pulled away, she let out an involuntary cry of distress.
‘What ails you, my love?’ asked Buckmaster.
She watched Kellow until he was swallowed up by the crowd.
‘It’s that silver coffee pot,’ she confessed, a palm to her breast. ‘It’s stolen my heart, Nigel – I’d kill to own it!’
The corpse lay on the bed, impervious to the breeze that blew in through the open window to rustle the curtains. When a fly came into the room, it described endless circles in the air before settling on the top of a large, open, empty leather bag.
CHAPTER TWO
‘Why do we have to go to Cardiff?’ asked Victor Leeming, grumpily.
‘Because that’s where the murder occurred,’ said Colbeck.
‘But Cardiff is in Wales.’
‘You don’t need to lecture me in geography, Victor. I know exactly where it is and how long it will take a train to get us there.’
‘Far too long,’ moaned Leeming.
‘A change of air will do you good.’
‘Don’t they have their own police force?’
‘We were expressly requested by the South Wales Railway.’
‘You mean that you were, Inspector. Every railway company in the country is after your services. At the first sign of trouble, they send for Robert Colbeck, the Railway Detective.’
‘A murder is rather more than a sign of trouble.’
‘What exactly happened?’
‘The telegraph gave us only the merest details,’ said Colbeck. ‘A guest at the Railway Hotel was killed in his room. That’s all we need to know at this stage. The summons had me reaching for my Bradshaw and that’s why we’re on our way to Paddington.’
Leeming grimaced. ‘I detest boring train journeys.’
‘That’s a contradiction in terms. To a trained observer – such as a detective sergeant like you – no train journey should ever be boring. It’s a delight to the eye and a continual stimulus to the brain. Travel broadens the mind, Victor.’
Leeming grunted mutinously. Colbeck knew why he was being so churlish. The sergeant was a married man with a wife and two children on whom he doted. He hated having to be absent from them at night and an investigation in Cardiff could well mean days away. As soon as the telegraph arrived at Scotland Yard, Colbeck had told Leeming to grab the valise he kept at the office in case of an assignment away from London. It contained a change of clothing. The two men were now ensconced in a cab as it rolled noisily towards the railway station over a cobbled street. They were, in appearance, an ill-assorted pair. Colbeck was tall, slim, debonair, impeccably dressed and with an almost flashy handsomeness while Leeming was stocky, of medium height, inelegant even in a frock coat and top hat, and with the startling ugliness of a fairground bruiser who has come off worst in a brawl. Yet his family loved him deeply and Colbeck admired him for his sterling qualities as a policeman. Leeming had the tenacity of a man who, once set on the right path, would never deviate from it until a case was solved.
Colbeck sought to cheer up his jaded companion.
‘There are consolations,’ he argued. ‘For a start, we’ll be out of reach of Superintendent Tallis for a while.’
‘That’s always a bonus,’ agreed Leeming. ‘He’s been very liverish these past few weeks.’
‘It’s understandable – there have been far too many crimes and far too few convictions. The superintendent expects us to catch every single law-breaker and put him or her behind bars. We both know that it’s an impossible demand.’
‘If he wants us patrolling the streets of London, why is he letting us charge off across the Welsh border?’
‘I think that vanity comes into it, Victor,’ decided Colbeck. ‘The fact that we’ve been sought by name indicates that the reputation of the Detective Department has spread far and wide. That feeds his self-importance. In that uninhabitable waste land known as his heart, I fancy that he rather likes the notion of despatching his men to solve crimes in different parts of the country – as long as we are quick about it, naturally.’
‘It can’t be quick enough for me this time.’
‘There’s no call for alarm. Estelle and the children will survive without you for a night or two.’
‘That’s not what irks me, Inspector,’ confided Leeming. ‘My worry is that I won’t be able to survive without them.’
The brisk clip-clop of the horse changed to a slow tap-tap of hooves as the driver pulled on the reins. The cab soon stopped and the two men got out. Colbeck paid the fare then led his companion into the maelstrom that was Paddington Station on a busy afternoon. Over the tumult, he called out to Leeming.
‘Then there’s the other consolation, Victor.’
‘Is there, sir?’
‘When we get to Cardiff, we’ll meet an old friend.’
‘Oh – and who might that be?’
‘Jeremiah Stockdale.’
Leeming brightened instantly. ‘Now that is a consolation.’
And for the first time in his life, he stepped into a railway carriage with something resembling a smile on his face.
Archelaus Pugh had many virtues but he was not a man for a crisis. As the manager of the Railway Hotel in Cardiff, he was unfailingly efficient. Faced with everyday problems – awkward guests, mistakes over reservations, indolence among his staff – he was calm, patient and decisive. Confronted with a dead body in one of his rooms, however, Pugh swiftly deteriorated. Sweat broke out on his corrugated brow, his eyes darted uncontrollably and his clothing was suddenly too tight for him. He was a short, neat man in his forties with a crisp and authoritative voice that had now become a baleful croak.
‘You can’t leave him there, Superintendent,’ he wailed.
‘I can do and I will do, Mr Pugh,’ said Jeremiah Stockdale.
‘Think what it looks like. If a policeman stands outside that room all day, it will frighten my other guests.’
‘It’s more likely to reassure them, sir. And it also prevents any of them from stumbling into the room by mistake. Think how horrified they’d be if that happened.’
Pugh tried to assert himself. ‘I have a hotel to run.’
‘And I have a crime to solve,’ retorted Stockdale, looming over him. ‘That takes precedence over everything.’
‘Can’t you at least move the corpse out of here?’
‘No, Mr Pugh.’
‘Why ever not – it’s the most dreadful advertisement for us.’
‘My sympathies are with the victim. He stays where he is until Inspector Colbeck arrives from London. I want him to see exactly what we found when we went into that room.’
Stockdale was adamant. He was a big, brawny, bluff individual in his forties with a thick, dark moustache and a fringe beard. English by birth, he had had a brief military career as a mercenary in Spain before being invalided home. Recovering from his wounds, he had joined the recently formed Metropolitan Police Force. As a result of the training and experience acquired on the dangerous streets of London, he had secured, when only twenty-four, the post of Superintendent of the Cardiff Borough Police. That made him, in effect, the town’s Chief Constable. For almost two decades, he had been a very successful law-enforcement officer in spite of an inadequate budget, limited manpower and the constant criticism of the Watch Committee.
It was pointless to argue with Jeremiah Box Stockdale. He was his own man. He did not suffer fools gladly or bend to the wishes of panic-stricken hotel managers. Archelaus Pugh could bleat at him all day but it was a futile exercise. The corpse would stay where it was and the policeman would remain on guard.
They were in the foyer of the hotel and guests who went past viewed the superintendent with a curiosity liberally tinged with fear. The imposing figure was dressed in a uniform of his own devising – a dark blue tunic and trousers trimmed with red cord, a peaked cap and a sword belt from his army days. Pugh was invisible beside him.
‘When will the inspector get here?’ asked the manager.
‘I’m sure that he will have caught the first available train,’ said Stockdale, ‘and I’m equally sure that he’ll be bringing Sergeant Leeming with him. You should be grateful to have two men of their ability coming here, Mr Pugh.’
‘The only time I’ll feel the slightest impulse of gratitude is when they carry that dead body out of here and remove the stain of murder.’
‘Don’t you want this crime solved?’
‘Of course, I do, but my concern is for the other guests.’
‘Suspicion comes before concern,’ said the policeman, darkly. ‘Did it never occur to you that the killer is likely to be someone who is staying under this roof?’ Pugh gulped and took an involuntary step backwards. ‘He might be going about his business as if nothing had ever happened. In other words, Mr Pugh, somewhere among those guests about whom you are so concerned may be the self-same villain who committed this foul crime.’
Pugh was aghast. ‘The killer is still here?’
‘It’s something I am bound to consider.’
Leaving the manager to digest this devastating possibility, Stockdale broke away from him and marched over to welcome the two men who were coming in through the door. Colbeck and Leeming had walked the short distance from the railway station. They were pleased to see their old friend. There was an exchange of greetings and warm handshakes. The mutual respect between the three men was evident. Stockdale introduced them to the manager but Pugh was less than impressed. Expecting policemen in uniform, he was instead looking at what he perceived as a dandy and a pugilist.
‘When will you move the body, Inspector?’ demanded Pugh.
‘When it is time to do so,’ snapped Stockdale, quelling him with a glare. ‘Meanwhile, I suggest that you move your own body out of the way so that we can go upstairs. I’m sure that Inspector Colbeck will want to speak to you later.’
‘I will, indeed, sir,’ said Colbeck, turning politely to Pugh. ‘I’m sorry for the disruption this must have caused. I can understand your anxiety. It’s possible that Sergeant Leeming and I may have to stay in the town for a while. I take it that you have a room available?’
‘It’s already booked in your name,’ said Stockdale.
‘Thank you, Superintendent.’
‘Here,’ he continued, relieving them of their valises and handing them to the manager. ‘Do something useful and have these sent up to their room.’ He beamed at the others. ‘Follow me, gentlemen.’
As the detectives ascended the carpeted staircase, Stockdale provided them with preliminary details.
‘The victim is a young silversmith from London. His name was Hugh Kellow and he worked for a Mr Leonard Voke of Wood Street. He came here to deliver an item – the invoice was in his pocket – and it’s been stolen. Robbery was clearly the motive for the murder.’
‘What was the item?’ asked Leeming.
‘It was a silver coffee pot in the shape of a locomotive.’
Colbeck was fascinated. ‘Then it must be very valuable.’
‘It is,’ said Stockdale, enviously. ‘It cost far more than any of us lesser mortals could ever afford.’ They reached a landing and he led them down a long passageway. ‘A guest was passing the room when she heard what sounded like a muffled cry for help. She alerted the manager and, to his credit, he came up here at once. There was no response when he knocked on the door so he used a master key to open it and made the discovery.’
At the end of the passageway, they turned a corner and saw a uniformed policeman standing outside the first room on the left. At the sight of his superior, he immediately straightened up and gave a deferential salute. Producing a key from his pocket, Stockdale flicked a hand to move his colleague aside.
‘Almost nothing has been touched, Inspector,’ he said. ‘I remembered what you once told me about the scene of a crime. Important clues could be lost if people trampled all over it or, in the case of a murder, if the body was moved before it had been properly examined.’
‘We’re very grateful to you,’ said Colbeck.
Stockdale unlocked the door. ‘What you’re about to see,’ he told them with a grim smile, ‘is exactly what the manager saw – though unlike Mr Pugh, you will not have an attack of hysteria.’
The door swung open and they stepped into the room. Colbeck and Leeming surveyed the scene. The corpse lay on its back on the rumpled bed. He was wearing a shirt that was partly unbuttoned, an open waistcoat, a pair of trousers and some stockings. His shoes were on the floor beside the bed and his coat and cravat over a chair. His bowler hat stood on a small table in front of which was an empty leather bag. There was bruising on the victim’s face and dried blood on his forehead from a scalp wound. What made Leeming catch his breath was that the man’s mouth and chin were disfigured as if they had been badly scalded.
‘Some kind of acid was used,’ explained Stockdale. ‘The killer poured it down his throat. Some of it spilt on his face.’
Colbeck walked around the bed so that he could view the body from a different angle. He bent close to scrutinise it. Then he crossed to the open window and looked out. His gaze shifted to the coat.
‘What did you find in that?’ he asked.
‘Very little,’ replied Stockdale. ‘It looks to me as if his wallet was stolen along with the coffee pot. All that remained were the things you see on the dressing table – an invoice from his employer, a second class ticket to Paddington and a business card.’
Colbeck went over to pick up the card. ‘Nigel Buckmaster,’ he read aloud. ‘Now there’s a name I know well.’
‘I’ve never heard of the man,’ said Leeming.
‘That’s because you never go to the theatre, Victor.’
‘How can I on my wage, Inspector? I have a family to feed.’
‘Mr Buckmaster is an actor-manager. He has his own company of strolling players. I saw him give a masterly performance as Othello on one occasion.’ His eyes moved to the corpse. ‘How on earth did his card come to be in the victim’s pocket?’
‘I can tell you that,’ said Stockdale, keen to show that he had not been idle. ‘Buckmaster’s Players arrived today to spend a week at the Theatre Royal. It appears that Mr Buckmaster and his leading lady, Miss Linnane, shared a compartment with Mr Kellow on the train. They were horrified to hear what happened to him. It was they who confirmed his name. What surprised them was that he came to the hotel. He told them that he was travelling back to London as soon as he had delivered the coffee pot.’
‘Perhaps he was due to hand it over to its new owner right here,’ suggested Leeming.
‘No, Sergeant. He was supposed to take it to the house.’
‘What house?
‘The one belonging to Mr and Mrs Tomkins,’ said Stockdale, ‘though it’s more like a small palace than a house. Only someone like Clifford Tomkins could afford to buy an expensive coffee pot like that. He made his fortune in Merthyr as an ironmaster then had a mansion built in Cardiff. The coffee pot was a gift to his wife.’
‘Let’s go back to Mr Buckmaster,’ said Colbeck. ‘If he travelled all the way here in the company of Mr Kellow, he might have picked up some useful intelligence. I’ll need to speak to him.’
‘Then you won’t have far to go. He and Miss Linnane are staying at the hotel.’ Stockdale smirked knowingly. ‘They have separate rooms but my guess is that only one of the beds will be used.’
‘I don’t hold with that sort of thing,’ said Leeming, bluntly.
‘There’s no law against it, Sergeant.’
‘Sometimes I think there should be.’
Stockdale laughed. ‘Then I’d have to lock up half the town.’
‘The superintendent is right,’ said Colbeck. ‘One cannot legislate against certain things. One has to live and let live – even though the consequences may be fatal, as in this case.’
Leeming was puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Tell me what you see in here, Victor.’
‘I see what we all see. The murder victim was battered then acid was poured down his throat. What surprises me is that Mr Kellow didn’t put up more of a fight. He looks like a healthy young man yet there’s no real sign of a struggle.’
‘That’s what troubled me,’ admitted Stockdale. ‘He must have been surprised. I know that he was supposed to be returning to London today but this room was, in fact, reserved in his name. My theory is that Mr Kellow came in here to rest, took off his hat, coat and shoes then lay down on the bed. Someone caught him off guard. Once he murdered his victim, the killer took everything of value and escaped through the window.’
‘Yes,’ said Colbeck, ‘I noticed how easy it would have been to climb on the roof of that shed below. It could well have been a means of escape. But,’ he added, crossing to kneel beside the bed, ‘there’s another explanation that occurs to me.’ He peeled back the cuffs of the dead man’s shirt. ‘It’s just as I thought. He was tied up. You can still see the marks of the rope on his wrists.’
Stockdale was upset. ‘I should have noticed that myself.’
‘You were only looking for things that fitted your theory.’
Leeming scratched his head. ‘The killer must have been a strong man,’ he noted, ‘if he could overpower and tie up his victim. Why didn’t Mr Kellow scream his head off? That’s what I’d have done in the circumstances.’
‘I very much doubt it, Victor,’ observed Colbeck with a smile. ‘You would never have been in those circumstances. Your wedding ring would have saved you from illicit sexual contact. What I believe may have happened is this,’ he went on, thinking it through. ‘Mr Kellow is a young man with a day off in a strange town. He was probably lured in here by a woman who persuaded him to let her tie him up so that she could tease him to heighten his pleasure.’ Leeming was shocked. ‘Once she had him in that condition, either she or a male accomplice took full advantage of him.’
‘That’s disgusting!’ protested Leeming.
‘It happens all the time in Butetown,’ said Stockdale, wearily. ‘Foreign sailors come streaming off their ships after months at sea and run straight to the arms of the nearest whore. After a drunken night of passion, they wake up to find they’ve been robbed of every penny. The only difference here is that poor Mr Kellow will never wake up.’
‘A trap was set,’ concluded Colbeck. ‘That’s why I incline to the notion that there were two of them. They knew when Mr Kellow was coming to Cardiff and what he would be carrying. He simply had to be enticed away from his errand. This room was booked by a man, giving his name as Hugh Kellow. When his female accomplice had rendered their victim helpless, he committed the murder and they fled.’ He turned to Stockdale. ‘The body can be moved now, Superintendent. I’ll want an autopsy.’
‘Of course, Inspector,’ said Stockdale.
‘I’ll need to speak to the manager then I’d like some time with Mr Buckmaster and Miss Linnane. They must have talked at length to Mr Kellow.’
‘What about me, Inspector?’ asked Leeming.
‘You must go straight back to London,’ said Colbeck, ‘but I’m not sending you there simply to spend the night with your wife. You must call on Leonard Voke as a matter of urgency, acquaint him with the details of this sorry business and find out who else knew that his assistant would be travelling to Cardiff today with an item of great value in his possession. Oh, there’s one other thing, Victor.’
‘Is there?’
‘Warn him.’
‘You think that he’s in danger?’
‘No,’ replied Colbeck, ‘but his stock may be at risk. Since he was given the important task of delivering that coffee pot, Hugh Kellow was obviously a trusted employee. He would almost certainly have had keys to the silversmith’s premises. Tell Mr Voke that they are missing.’
CHAPTER THREE
Madeleine Andrews was so engrossed in studying her sketchbook that she did not even hear the familiar footsteps on the pavement outside the little house in Camden. When her father let himself in, therefore, she looked up in alarm as if an intruder had just burst upon her. She smiled with relief at the sight of Caleb Andrews, back home from another day as a driver on the London and North West Railway.
‘You took me by surprise, Father,’ she said.
‘It’s not often I do that, Maddie,’ he said, taking off his coat and cap before hanging them on the back of the door. ‘In any case, I’m the one who should be surprised. I was expecting to find the place empty. You were going out with Inspector Colbeck this evening.’
‘Robert sent a note to cancel the arrangement.’
‘Did he give a reason?’
‘He had to go to Cardiff at short notice.’
‘That means the Great Western Railway,’ said Andrews with a sneer, ‘and Brunel’s Great Big Mistake of installing a broad gauge. If only he’d had the sense to use a standard gauge on his track, life would be so much simpler for all of us.’
‘That’s one way of looking at it,’ she said.
‘It’s the only way, Maddie.’
‘Mr Brunel would argue that the LNWR and other companies were at fault when they chose a narrower gauge. If everyone else had fallen into line behind him, there’d be no argument.’
‘Stop provoking me.’
‘I was trying to see it from his point of view.’
‘In this house,’ he declared, stamping a foot, ‘Isambard Kingdom Brunel doesn’t have a point of view. I work for a rival company.’
‘Then I won’t show you this,’ she said, closing her sketchbook.
‘What was it?’
‘A sketch I made of a locomotive in the Firefly class.’
‘That’s one of Daniel Gooch’s designs,’ he said with grudging admiration. ‘It’s a good, reliable engine and it’s stayed in service. The train that took Inspector Colbeck to Wales might even have been from the Firefly class. You should be drawing our locomotives,’ he added with sudden petulance, ‘not those of our competitors.’
‘I draw what catches my eye, Father.’
Putting her sketchbook aside, she got up and went into the kitchen to set out their supper on the table. She was disappointed that Robert Colbeck was unable to see her that evening but she was accustomed to such last-minute changes of plan. He worked long and uncertain hours at Scotland Yard. Close friendship with the Railway Detective meant that she had to tolerate his sudden departures and unforeseen commitments. Madeleine had her work to console her. It was Colbeck who had discovered her artistic talent and encouraged her to develop it to the point where it began to have commercial value. Not for her the tranquil landscapes and dainty water colours of other female artists. Her subject was the railway system and in her father, who had spent a whole working life on it, and Robert Colbeck, who was its devotee, she had two continual sources of inspiration.
When he drifted into the kitchen, Andrews was smoking his pipe. He was a short, sinewy man in his fifties with a wispy beard salted with grey. His workmates knew him for his irascibility but he tended to mellow when at home. Since the death of his wife, his daughter had taken care of him, feeding him, nurturing him and keeping him from despair. As he watched her now, bending over the table, he was reminded so vividly of his wife that his eyes moistened. Madeleine had the same quietly attractive features, the same clear complexion and the same auburn hair. He had to remind himself how different they really were in character. Madeleine was far more gifted, more assertive and more self-possessed. She could set her sights on something higher than being the wife of a railwayman.
Halfway through the meal, Andrews broached the topic.
‘Has the Inspector said anything?’ he asked, gently.
‘Robert has said lots of things. He’s very talkative.’
‘You know what I mean, Maddie.’
‘I’m sure that I don’t,’ she said, briskly, reaching for her teacup. ‘What sort of a day have you had?’
‘The kind of day that I always have,’ he replied. ‘It was long and tiring. Now don’t try to avoid the question.’
‘I’m avoiding nothing, Father.’
‘Well?’
‘Eat your food.’
‘I’m waiting for an answer.’
‘Robert and I are good friends.’
‘You always say that.’
‘Then why don’t you believe me?’
‘Because you’ve been saying it for years now, Maddie,’ he went on. ‘People are beginning to pass remarks about the two of you.’
‘Well, they’d better not do so to my face,’ she warned with a show of temper worthy of her father, ‘or they’ll get more than they bargained for! I’m surprised you listen to worthless tittle-tattle.’
‘They’re bound to wonder – and so am I.’
She took a deep breath. ‘Robert and I have an understanding,’ she explained, trying to rein in her irritation. ‘You need have no fears about him, I promise you. He’s a perfect gentleman.’
Andrews gave her time to calm down. There was an obvious bond between Colbeck and his daughter but it vexed him that he did not comprehend its true nature. In the normal course of events, an engine driver’s daughter would never have the opportunity to befriend a detective inspector, especially one who had enjoyed a career as a barrister before joining the Metropolitan Police Force. All three of them had been thrown together by a dramatic turn of events. During a daring robbery of a train that Andrews had been driving, he had been badly injured and there had been a string of related crimes. Colbeck had not only solved them, he had rescued Madeleine when she was abducted by the men responsible for the robbery in which her father had almost died. Drawn together by adversity, Colbeck and Madeleine had something far more than a friendship yet somewhat less than a formal betrothal. While she was happy to accept the situation for what it was, her father was not. He waited until the meal was over before he returned to the delicate subject.
‘I’m your father, Maddie,’ he said, softly. ‘It’s my duty to look after you. I know that you look after me most of the time,’ he went on with a chortle, ‘but this is different. I have a responsibility.’
‘I’ve told you before, father. You can rest easy.’
‘You don’t want to be stuck here with me forever.’
‘I’ll do what I feel is right.’
Andrews was tentative. ‘Is it to do with his job?’ he wondered. ‘I know that it’s dangerous work and that he has to work even longer hours than I do. Perhaps he thinks it would be unfair on you to ask you to be his –—’
‘That’s enough,’ she said, interrupting him. ‘I don’t wish to end the day with an argument.’
‘I’m not arguing, Maddie. I have your best interests at heart.’
She heaved a sighed. ‘I know, Father.’
‘I’m bound to feel uneasy at the way things are.’
‘Well, you have no cause.’ She got up and cleared away the dishes before turning to face him. Folding her arms, she weighed her words with care. ‘All I can tell you is this – and it’s strictly for your ears only. I don’t want any more gossip about us.’
‘I’ll be as silent as the grave,’ he promised.
‘You must be, Father. If you keep prying, you’ll upset Robert as well as me. As I’ve told you a dozen times,’ she went on, ‘we’re close friends but there’s a point beyond which our friendship never goes. He hasn’t put it into words but I sense there’s some kind of obstruction. It’s to do with his past.’
‘You mean that he’s already married?’ said Andrews, worriedly. ‘I won’t have any man trifling with your affections, Maddie, however high and mighty he might be,’
‘He’s not married and he never has been. And Robert is certainly not leading me astray. But there was someone in his past and, every so often, that person comes into his mind. At least, that’s what I think. It’s the only way to explain them.’
‘Explain what?’
‘Those odd moments,’ she said, pursing her lips, ‘when he seems to be in mourning for someone.’
The passage of time had not served to calm down Archelaus Pugh. When Colbeck spoke to the manager in his office, Pugh was still in a state of shock, body tense, face pallid, his Welsh lilt exploring higher octaves.
‘This could be the ruination of us, Inspector,’ he said, dabbing at the perspiration on his brow with a handkerchief. ‘The hotel has not long been opened. Murder is bound to affect our business.’
‘Temporarily perhaps,’ said Colbeck. ‘The important thing is to solve the crime as soon as possible so that it does not remain at the forefront of the public’s mind. You’ll be pleased to hear that I’ve sanctioned the removal of the body.’
‘Thank goodness for that!’
‘I’d recommend that you keep that room unoccupied for a while.’
Pugh gave a hollow laugh. ‘Who’d want to stay there?’
‘I think you’d be surprised, sir. Never underestimate the ghoulish curiosity of some people. Now,’ he went on, ‘I need some details from you. When was that particular room reserved?’
‘This very morning, Inspector,’ replied the manager. ‘Mr Jones, who was on duty at the time, believes that it was around ten o’clock. The room was booked for one night by a Mr Hugh Kellow.’
‘Except that it couldn’t have been the real Mr Kellow because his train did not arrive in Cardiff until almost an hour later. The man was patently an impostor.’
Pugh was defensive. ‘Mr Jones was not to know that.’
‘Of course not,’ said Colbeck. ‘He acted in good faith. What can he tell us about this bogus Mr Kellow?’
‘Very little, I fear,’ said Pugh. ‘He’s an observant man – I teach all my staff to be alert – but other guests were arriving at the same time. All that Mr Jones can remember is that he was a personable young man with a ready smile.’
‘Did he have a Welsh or an English accent?’
‘English.’
‘Was it an educated voice?’
